


Hybrid

by ShippingAllShips



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Mind Meld, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 11:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16680538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippingAllShips/pseuds/ShippingAllShips
Summary: He is neither Adam nor Michael. He is what remains after they have gone.





	Hybrid

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally an idea I had for another fandom, but it worked out better here lol.

He was born into darkness and confusion. Into the oppressive heat and the icy winds, into the silence that surrounded him, that pressed down on him at all sides, alive and angry. 

He was scared. This place, he does not know. It’s dark, so horribly dark. The only light is him, shining brightly and illuminating the small cage he is in, the chains on the walls, the hooks hanging from the ceiling.

But why he shines, he does not know. He thinks he knows, a small thought passing through his head that he murmurs out loud and hugs his knees close. It can’t be right, because the next thought that passed through his lips says otherwise.

He can feel something, something long gone and faded with time. Maybe, if it was still here, it could have told him what he was. But it is gone, long gone, faded before he arrived. 

Something has died here, whatever this place is, and he has taken its place, whatever he is. And that scares him.

*~*

He stares at the ceiling and thinks. His thoughts are a mess, jumbled and disjointed. They scream at him so much, contradicting one another and scrambled in the worst way and it makes his headache.

He thinks about a lot of things. 

He thinks of Earth, of the beautiful blue of the oceans and the lush greens of the forest. He thinks of the cold steel that made up its cities, the warmth of small towns. He thinks of playgrounds and sterile hospitals and baseball diamonds.

He thinks of the stars, burning bright in the sky, of the reds and blues and violets that make up the galaxies. He thinks of the golden white of heaven, the fluffiness of the clouds that he walked upon. He thinks of light and feathers and warmth.

He thinks of his brothers. He knows they are his brothers, all of them. The ones that shine bright, with wings and too many limbs and multiple faces, and the ones that are human, two legs and two arms and too tall.

He thinks of himself. Of what he is and what he is not. He cannot give himself answers, he doesn’t know them.

*~*

He knows that he must leave this place. Somehow, someway. 

It’s what he was made to do, he whispers to himself in the dark, another thought filtering though. 

How, how, how, he wonders, frantic, staring at a gap in the bars. It shows nothing but darkness beyond. 

How can he leave? 

There is no way to. 

Why would he want to leave? 

This place is not made for him.

It was not made for anyone. 

But this is all he knows.

He must leave. 

Why? 

He must. 

He doesn’t know how and that makes him want to weep.

*~*

He learns who he is, slowly and disjointed.

He is Michael. He knows the true names of the stars in the sky, had watched them form over millennia into constellations and galaxies that would leave even the hardest man in awe at their beauty. He knows how bight each angel had shown, the beautiful and blinding white of Lucifers wings and the warm caramel color of Gabriels and the cool blue that made Raphael. He knows the language of the divine and how it slides easily from his mouth like it was second nature to him, the hymns and songs and prayers that humanity has long forgotten. 

But Michael does not know the taste of frozen flavored ice on a hot summer day, the pain of falling down and scraping your knee on hard concrete, the heat of the sun on a baseball diamond, the warmth of a mother’s smile, the feeling of his flesh being ripped from his bones and too sharp teeth ripping him apart and being reborn once more.

He is Adam. He knows the feeling of the sun beating down on his back as he runs down the beach, cold water splashing against his legs as he danced on the edge of the water with his mother, flushed and happy and laughing. He knows how to heal, to mend a broken bone, how much morphine it takes to numb the pain, how much to kill. He knows a human’s anatomy, the names of the bones in his body, the organs in his chest, the veins that travel up his arm.

But Adam does not know the hardships of battle, the feeling of your wings being torn and shredded beneath vicious hands, of grace knitting your flesh and bones back together, the pain of having to strike your own sibling down, the phantom feeling of their blood on your hands that will never wash away.

He knows who he is.

He does not know who he is. 

Maybe this is for the best.

*~*

He has wings. He does not know how he did not notice before, but he does now.

They are heavy on his back, weighing him down as he stood after centuries of sitting. He is not used to them, they are foreign to his form, far too bulky and heavy. 

But he knows them, knows that they are his. They listen to him, to his thoughts, when he commands them to press against him and then to stretch out, feathers ruffling and falling to the ground. 

They ache, like a limb finally stretching after being forced to stay still, stiff and cracking at the joints. And they are beautiful. There are six in total, their feathers a deep red, like the center of a galaxy, like the blood of humans. They lighten slightly at the ends, a gradient of red, not very noticeable unless one already knew. 

He knew. He knew that they had once been more glorious, feathers less prone to falling and the tips of one wing not singed. It achs, the burnt wing. He doesn’t understand how he never noticed it before.

His hand reaches up, touches the flesh there. He pulls back with a hiss, his wing flaring as he drew his hand close. He had never experienced pain before, only what lay within his own mind, the memories that were not his own. It is unpleasant, he does not like it.

We can fly with these, he whispers to himself, his hand touching a piece that was not damaged. They are still good. Damaged and torn and  _ painful _ , but good.

We should fly then, he says and finds that he agrees with that thought.

But this place is too small for that.

*~*

There was once an angel here, tall and proud, the leader of them all when their own father abandoned them.

There was once a human here, small and weak, forgotten by those who said they would protect him.

Both are gone, he knows. 

He is what remains.

*~*

The cage was meant to hold an archangel. To hold a human.

But he was neither and he was both. He was something more, something better. 

A hybrid.

The cage was not meant to contain him.

*~*

He wakes up in a cemetery, laying in a patch of dirt, the outline of wings making craters in the ground. An imitation of a snow angel. 

He stood, taking a deep breath. The air smelled of death, of corpses rotting in the ground, and the crispness of fall, of leaves falling and cool air. He smiles.

“My name is Michael.” He whispers to the wind, feeling it caress his hair and wings. “My name is Adam.”

He picks a direction and begins to walk.


End file.
